


"All get what they want; they do not always like it"

by Devilc



Category: The Barrow (Book Series)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Queer Character of Color, Canonical Homophobia, Fantasy, M/M, Rough Sex, canonical bigotry, canonical racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: Each time he's in Truse for the Tournament,  Leon tells himself that this time will be different, that he dare not take the risk because his family cannot afford the scandal that would destroy the last remnants of his family's name and honor.And every single time since he discovered this house -- sent there by somebody playing a prank that first time -- he keeps coming back.
Relationships: Leon Orwain, Stjepan Black-Heart - Relationship
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	"All get what they want; they do not always like it"

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo-boy, where to begin with this one since it's for a fandom perhaps 3 people have heard of?
> 
> Back in late 1990s/early 2000s there was a great (independent) comic series called _Artesia_ , created by Mark Smylie. It was unlike just about any other fantasy I'd ever read, in this richly imagined universe called "The Known World" ... and it ended on a cliffhanger.
> 
> And then, in 2014, Mark Smylie released a sprawling, very trope-y prequel novel (it has a no shit fuck or die scene in it, 'nuff said), set about 18 months before the start of the comics, called _The Barrow_ , which follows the (mis)adventures of Artesia's very queer brother, Stjepan Black-Heart and his gender non-conforming sidekick, Erim of Berrina. (You can find it on Amazon & possibly through your local library. It's also on Hoopla.) And then, in 2019 on pay-tree-onn, he started releasing the next novel in the series, _The Barrow: Black-Heart_ , a chapter (and a shit-ton of art and maps) at a time. The first two parts of _Black-Heart_ have finally been released on Amazon. 
> 
> Since you're going to read this first and then check out the source material: In the Middle Kingdoms, the ruling class is mostly blonde-haired blue eyed Aurians, who invaded over 1000 years ago. Their first god, Heth, the great sea-bull, rejected them for their crimes against the great mother goddess. So, they now worship Islik, King of Heaven, and the "Sun Court" flavor of Islik's church is like the worst parts of counter-reformation Catholicism combined with the worst parts of Calvinism. So, many Aurians are racist, bigoted, sexist, and homophobic. (Some Aurians are actually descended from Heth and, per canon, this "blood of the bull" matters in bed.)
> 
> Danians are one of the original races of the Middle Kingdoms and tend to have fair skin, dark hair, and blue or brown eyes. Danian elites follow Islik, many of the average people secretly follow the Old Religion, which is the antithesis of Islik's religion.
> 
> Athairi are one of the original races of the Middle Kingdoms and tend to have darker, coppery colored skin, dark hair, and hazel or brown eyes. Athairi elites pay lipservice to Islik, and everybody else openly follows the Old Religion. Their culture is also matriarchal -- the opposite of Aurian. (The Athairi have fae and/or satryr ancestry, and per canon, this matters in bed.)
> 
> This story is a missing scene in Black-Heart pt 2 and is set immediately after the chapter called "The Orwain Brothers" but before the events of "The Day of The Dead" So, yes, this is full of spoilers if you haven't read any of the source material.
> 
> Still here? The title is a line is from C.S. Lewis's _The Magician's Nephew_.

"There's something he's not telling us," Leon finally manages to put enough of a leash on his anger to choke the words out, or Conrad has gotten him far enough from the Royal Cartographers tents and has eased up on his vice-like grip on Leon's shoulder, or both.

Conrad closes his eyes, doubtless offering up a prayer to the King of Heaven, and when he opens them again and speaks, his voice is just as patient, calm, and measured as it ever is. "And do you have any reason to think he isn't telling us something that would ease our minds or make us any safer?"

The fact that Conrad is right, and that he's so calm and matter of fact about everything they've just learned, is yet another thorn in Leon's side. "I don't know how you do it, brother. Stay so - so …" he gestures his frustration with Conrad's ability to keep an even temper.

Conrad draws a deep breath, and as he blows it out, a smile quirks the corner of his mouth ... that mouth that looks so like his, six hells, that face that looks so like Leon's that people have assumed they are twins, not older and younger siblings.

Conrad takes his arm again, gently this time, and starts guiding him back to their tent. "I wasn't born with the fury of holy Agall," he says matter of factly. 

Leon feels an answering crooked grin on his face, but one that's more bitter than sweet. "I doubt the Agallite Templars will take me now, father's objections be damned."

With a vague mmmm, Conrad steers them swiftly through the throngs of people. Between the Grand Duke's army and those gathered for the Tournament of Stones, Leon has never seen so many people packed so densely, not even in Therapoli. It's another thing that's chafing his already chapped psyche. They're almost at their tent when Conrad speaks, "You know, father might change his mind about that and offer up a donation to the Temple to take you in. It _is_ honorable, after all, and a good use of your seemingly endless capacity for temper." He pauses and adds, "Solves the marriage problem, too."

Yeah, well, as a 4th son -- now a 3rd, though that's not public yet -- of a disgraced family, the world wasn't exactly lining up eligible daughters at his door, even before the latest blow. And even then, the most likely offers would've been, well, "west of pure" and that would never do.

( _Not that you're eager for the marriage bed_ , says that smirking voice in from deep within, before he ruthlessly clamps down on it.)

Conrad continues as they push through the flap to their tent, "If you want, I'll bring it up to father, once we're returned. He'll take it better from me."

Leon grunts and flops into a camp chair, which squeaks in protest. "Hurry up and wait."

Conrad squeezes his shoulder encouragingly, but there's a hint of steel in his voice. "We have to play the hand we're dealt. The King of Heaven sees our worth, even when no one else does, and that is what we must cling to. That is what will see us through."

 _Because we have nothing else, and not for lack of trying,_ Leon thinks bitterly, but doesn't say the words, because, honestly? What's the use?

~oo(0)oo~

He slips out of their tent after dark. Conrad is off, seeing to the men, or doing something else useful … Leon doesn't know or care, really. He's had a throbbing headache all afternoon, and used it to beg off accompanying Conrad.

There's only one cure for this headache, and, at last, Leon's headed to it.

Each time he's in Truse for the Tournament, Leon tells himself that this time will be different, that he dare not take the risk because his family cannot afford the scandal that would destroy the last remnants of his family's name and honor.

And every single time since he discovered this house -- sent there by somebody playing a prank that first time -- he keeps coming back.

Leon supposes that houses like this exist in all the major towns of the Middle Kingdoms, and that Therapoli doubtless has several. He does not try to discover them. He indulges here, once a year, and prays that it is enough to spare him from the Hell ruled by Ligrid, Queen of Perversion.

(But that little voice doesn't stop, either. Sometimes it whines in fear. And sometimes it says that he's already one of the damned, and might as well go all in.)

But as he rounds the corner, and starts down the alley, his headache lessens with each step that takes him closer to the wrought iron gate with the rose, and the nondescript house that lies behind it.

~oo(0)oo~

"The rider or the ridden?" asks the effete mustachioed man before him, a Danian.

"Rider!" Leon snarls before he can check himself. _What kind of a man does he think I am? A catamite like him?!_

The man's tone does not change. "Any other --" he waves his hand vaguely, in a limp wristed way, "requests?"

"Athairi, if you have one." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. But he doesn't correct himself and ask for his usual "Aurian or Danian stock, if you must." Normally he tries to keep his filthy aberration at least somewhat pure, but tonight? In for a penny, in for a pound.

( _At least you didn't ask for one of those … kaffirs_ , he consoles himself, _Better an Athairi than one of those, better to turn himself over to the Inquisition than sink that low._ )

The man pauses and raises a carefully manicured eyebrow. "Let me inquire."

"What," Leon scoffs, "you don't know your own stable?"

The man's voice is still unfailingly polite, though there is now a glint in his light brown eyes, "You will still have to pay the house fee, but there is a guest who might want _more_ ," and then, under his breath so low that Leon barely hears it as the man turns away, "they usually do."

~oo(0)oo~

The man holds out a cream colored half mask when he returns. "House rule for an … assignation of this kind." He takes Leon's proffered crowns and leads him up the stairs.

~oo(0)oo~

He almost backs out when he sees that it's Stjepan Black-Heart, whom he recognizes somehow despite his mask and the oblique angle, getting hammered from both ends by two blonds (and enthusiastically so) while a third blond recovers in a chair in the corner. 

But the thought of giving this particular piece of Athairi scum (who returned out of the dangers of the Bale Mole when Arduin, Anwynn, and so many of their household knights perished, doubtless betrayed in some way, and quite possibly by Black-Heart) a fucking he'll never forget, brings Leon silently into the room, where he lounges against the wall, arms crossed, and takes in the scene while he waits.

The smells of come and sweat mix with the scent of roses from the water in the basin by the window. The blond in the chair, whose hazel flecked eyes betray a mixed ancestry, shifts in his seat as if he means to rise and come over, but a curt shake of Leon's head cuts that off. Seeing Black-Heart getting fucked like he's one of the tavern sluts at Woat's Inn has Leon hard and almost jittering to go. He doesn't need any warming up. Besides, Leon suspects that if any of the whores touch him, that will count as services rendered on top of the house fee, and he rather likes the idea of Stjepan Black-Heart being a cut-rate whore, not worth the price of one from better stock.

Leon studies the seated whore for a moment before turning his gaze back to the bed. He's muscular and scarred in a way that makes Leon wonder if he's somebody's man-at-arms, or a sell-sword, picking up some extra coin while the Tournament is in town.

Black-Heart isn't what Leon thought he would be, either. His copper-skinned body is leaner and harder than Leon expected from someone working in Chancery as a cartographer, more scarred, too. He's so caught up in getting reamed from both ends, he still hasn't registered Leon's entrance. The two whores attending him did, but they're at more liberty to move than Black-Heart, and beyond one of them raking his eyes up and down and Leon's body and then leering at him for a moment before turning his gaze back to his dick slipping in and out of that greedy mouth , and the other winking at him before giving Black-Heart's flank a sudden hard slap to make him tense and moan, neither of them skipped a beat.

It's only after the one finishes in Black-Heart's ass with a series of brutal thrusts and finally withdraws, that Black-Heart pulls back from the man fucking his face and finally notices -- and recognizes -- Leon. He doesn't say anything, he's too smart for that, but it's all in the eyes, the pupils dieting with the shock of it, followed by a flare of equal parts lust and rage in those hazel depths.

Leon knows that his own blue gaze shows similar emotions as their eyes lock. Black-Heart spins to a seated position and works his way down to the foot of the bed. He wears two amulets of protection around his neck, and Leon notices that his chest is hairless and his nipples are pierced with small silver hoops, doubtless some barbaric Athairi custom, and yet … they pique Leon's curiosity. Only through discipline does he stop his own hand from moving up to his chest to touch his own nipples, which have pebbled into stiff nubs at the thought.

But the strangeness doesn't stop there. Not only does Black-Heart look to have shaved most of his pubic hair, or is nearly hairless down there, but his cock (a decent size, given the blood of the bull does not run through his veins) is bound 'round the root and balls with a leather thong, and is circumcised. Leon has been told about this rite of passage among those who follow the Old Religion, but has never seen it himself, being surrounded most of the time by followers of the King of Heaven, who forbids such mutilation and sacrifice from his followers. He closes his eyes and shudders at the thought.

Gathering himself, he opens his eyes and sees that Black-Heart lies back, legs bent and spread, come leaking from his red and well fucked hole. Whore three doesn't even bother to drizzle any oil on himself before lining up and slamming into the hilt, driving in hard enough to wring a groan from Black-Heart followed by a muffled oath of some sort.

The second whore ambles over to the basin, wets a cloth in the rose-scented water, and uses it to wipe the sheen of perspiration from his face before cleaning his cock. He tosses it in a basket at the foot of the washstand and sits back down on the bed next to Black-Heart, running a hand affectionately through his sweat-tousled dark locks. Black-Heart's groan of appreciation comes out as a series of hitches, due to the swift fucking he's getting, and Leon wonders how it can be pleasurable, getting used like that, used like a woman, but Black-Heart's mouth is slack in pleasure until he gives a throaty cry, and then what looks like a breathlessly murmured prayer of some sort when the second whore starts teasing Black-Heart's nipples, tugging at the rings before bending down to play with them using teeth and tongue. This time, Leon isn't able to stop himself from giving a surreptitious curious stroke to his own nipple and shivering from the feeling before he catches himself and stops. The whores don't need to see him diddling himself. 

At last, whore number three spends with a strangled cry, and Leon reaches down and starts working at the lacings of his britches. He's not going to undress any more than he needs to for this, because he wants Black-Heart to know that he's nothing more than a hole for his better to fuck.

While whore number three cleans himself at the basin, Black-Heart says, his voice hoarse and croaky, "In my left doublet pocket, you'll find a purse of coin. Three silver for each of you, and know that I'm well pleased."

"Sure you don't want some more?" asks whore number one

Black-Heart shakes his head. "That will be all. Thank you." His voice leaves no doubt about the dismissal.

"I half-feel we ain't finished the job yet," says whore number three, his guttersnipe accent grating on Leon's nerves as he holds out his hand for his share of the coins, "Seeing as you ain't come yet."

"Some other time," Leon growls at them and gestures towards the door, which he shuts and locks the moment they are through.

"Well," Black-Heart begins, as he sits up, removes his mask and sets it aside, "This is --"

"I didn't come for conversation," Leon snarls, closing the distance and slapping Black-Heart on the face -- not hard enough to leave a lingering mark, but enough to get his attention. The absolute look of murder in Black-Heart's eyes as he slips from the bed and stands is enough to let Leon know he's made a mistake. But his father has taught him that when dealing with the lower sort, the correct course of action is to continue on, reinforcing his authority and brooking no disobedience. "I came here to fuck, and that fact that it's _you_ , you snake-tounged bastard, and not some other member of your hedonistic race only makes it better."

Black-Heart says nothing, just moves like he's turning to position himself on the bed so Leon can mount him, and before Leon can stop it, he's the one on the bed, face up, Black-Heart atop him, pressing a razor sharp blade to his jugular, his eyes glittering dangerously in the candlelight.

"How--?" the word drops from Leon's lips before he can stop it. He's a knight, and not some up-jumped squire with new spurs, or the sort of man who only knows the tourney circle. He's ridden in enough real fights to know how to handle himself, to see and redirect an attack. "You … make maps," he finishes, voice trailing off as the blade pricks his skin, drawing a bead of blood. The blade is honed so fine that the sting of the cut comes only after feeling the tickle of blood on his neck.

Gone is the polite, almost subservient man that Leon met earlier today. "You Aurian lordlings -- always so fucking deaf, dumb, and blind to the rest of the world."

Leon's got no answer to that. He clenches his mouth shut. His house would lose every last vestige of hope for recovering honor if he turned up murdered in a "rose garden." Oh, he knows they'd bundle his body out into some other back alley, but … rumor would spread.

"Better," Black-Heart arches a mocking eyebrow as he carefully shimmies back down Leon's body, and reaches for his cock with his other hand. "Still hard," Black-Heart says. 'Good."

Wait … this was still happening?

A cruel sort of mirth flits across Black-Heart's face. "The blood of the great bull runs strong in you, that's for sure. You came to fuck, I came to get fucked, and as you can see, I'm still not done yet." He slowly, and more than a little awkwardly, guides Leon in, wincing, breath coming in a few hitches, inch by inch sinking down until he's fully seated, blowing out a pent-up breath. "Dieva help me, that's good."

"Ligrid, you mean," Leon corrects him in a rueful voice.

The flare of white-hot rage in Black-Heart's eyes turns Leon's mouth to sand, and the blade makes another one of those feel-the-bleed-before-the-sting cuts on his neck. "Take that name out of your mouth!" Black-Heart hisses. " _Do not_ invite her into this. She has no place here!" He pauses and cocks his head to the side. When he speaks again, his voice is measured and thoughtful. "Or are you saying that your heart says no, though your cock says yes?"

Leon has to work his mouth several times before he can say, "No, I still want to fuck." Then, "But I think this will go better for both of us if you remove the knife from my throat."

Black-Heart shifts his body ever so slightly on Leon's cock, and though he has been plowed loose and raw, it's still good enough to make Leon suck in a hissing breath through clenched teeth. He swallows as hard as he dares and says, "Or, is the plan to kill me and put my head on a pike and claim it is Arduin's?" _Nobody cares about a missing fourth son_ goes unsaid.

Black-Heart pulls the knife back at that, but keeps it at the ready; Leon can feel the flat of the blade on his collarbone. "No, that's not the plan." His eyes soften a bit, "At least as far as I know." After a long moment he locks eyes with Leon and says, "Well, are you going to lay there like a corpse or get on with it?"

It burns him to ask. "May I move my hands to your hips?"

Black-Heart grunts an affirmative, and repositions his knife hand, granting Leon a direct line. As he reaches, Leon sees where he'll have bruises come morning on the horns of his hips. He means to leave Black-Heart with a set going the opposite direction. Grabbing him none too gently, Leon rocks up, drawing a groan from Black-Heart, and asks, "How often do you do this?" He asks, voice light, "Get plowed by your betters?"

Black-Heart's answering laugh gets cut off by a sharp jab from Leon's prick. "I've never met my betters," he replies, rocking in answer to the rhythm Leon's setting, panting out the words. "But if you're asking if I like to get fucked by the kind of men I'm bound into serving, men who look like the ones who burned my mother at the stake? Well, Dieva sometimes insists we gather the honey from the thorns." A complex burst of emotions flashes into Black-Heart's eyes, but a heartbeat later, it's gone, replaced by a cold and flinty expression that speaks of tamped down hate.

Black-Heart changes the pace to something brutal, his words coming out in little bursts between hasps for air, "Let me guess, you came to fuck a filthy Athairi into his place."

"Absolutely," Leon snarls in reply, seeing no reason to lie or sugar coat the truth.

"So, get on with it." Stjepan's eyes burn.

Leon does, but on his terms, bringing them both to the edge three times, making Black-Heart writhe and squirm and cry out to his whore-goddess for help more times than Leon can count before he pulls the quick-release knot on the base of Black-Heart's cock and chafes it roughly, using his sword calluses to good effect, until Black-Heart spends with a scream as hours of pent up seed burst forth, tagging Leon's chin and chest.

He waits until Black-Heart has almost gone as limp as a rag-doll with his release, rolls him and pile drives his way to that white hot rush. He pulls out at the last moment, painting Black-Heart, marking him with his seed, before flopping down on the bed next to him.

Leon drifts back up through the post-orgasm haze, soaked in sweat, and looks over to see Black-Heart applying some sort of salve to his rear and whispering a prayer or a spell. Well, considering the hours of riding he's going to put in tomorrow, heading up into the foothills of the Manon Mole, he'll need all the help he can get.

Black-Heart sees him staring and tosses over a rose-water soaked cloth. With a groan, Leon sits up and begins wiping himself down. He feels …. He could fuck Black-Heart like this, or worse, humiliate him -- and he has no doubt Black-Heart would unfailingly comply with almost anything Leon could ask him to do in the bedchamber -- and it _still_ would not be enough. It would never be enough. 

A dark thought occurs to him. "Did you and Harvald --"

"Fuck like this?" Black-Heart finishes. At Leon's nod, he continues, "No. Never."

" _But you wanted to_."

Black-Heart shrugs. "Maybe at first, when he was just a face, seen from the other side of the quad. But not after we'd become friends, no, not really." He fastens his underpants and steps into his trousers.

"Why not?" Leon asks. "He was just as handsome as any in our family."

"Because I knew him!" Black-Heart hisses. "You don't shit where you eat, especially not at Chancery." He pulls his shirt over his head and works at the lacings. "Besides, _black-heart,_ not interested in falling in love, and nobody deserves to be saddled with me -- not as I am right now -- leading a life that is not my own, but has me out the door on his majesty's bidding on a moment's notice."

"Same goes for a knight," Leon says as he stands and tucks himself back into his now filthy breeches and starts working the lacings. With a sigh he realizes he'll need to slip an extra coin to whatever laundress he finds.

Black-Heart stops half way through buttoning his doublet and glares at him. "Only on the most superficial levels. Pray you never find out what I really do, and what it really costs. He snatches his boots, baldric and blades, jacket, and jams his tricorn hat on, making for the door. He pauses just before exiting and says over his shoulder, "I do not have the answers you are looking for my lord, and I doubt I ever will. Or, if I did, I could say the words, swear an oath on any holy relic you choose, and you would hear the words and still not _hear_ them. You are deaf to anything that does not square with what you want the world to be, and nothing I say can help that."

~oo(0)oo~

The next day when Leon sees Black-Heart, he is once again unfailingly polite to him and Conrad, not even rising to asking a loaded question or making a statement with a double meaning, such as asking after their sleep, or today's ride, or some such.

But … Leon sees that this politeness doesn't come from the place that it does in Conrad, a place of care , a desire to keep the peace. He sees now that it comes from a place of such relentless cold that Leon comforts himself by thinking that at least his rage burns hot.

That, and the next time he returns to the house of the rose? He'll ask for a Dainian. A nice, safe, middle of the road Dainian who doesn't have secrets, or answers, or questions beyond what Leon wants in bed, and who will be grateful for anything Leon deigns to give him.

**Author's Note:**

> Now has a sequel chapter, [Just Fishing in the Darkness of Possibilities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719963)


End file.
